


Fraternisation

by curly184



Series: From Recognition to Realisation [2]
Category: Band of Brothers (TV 2001)
Genre: Afghanistan, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-14 01:22:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29535399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curly184/pseuds/curly184
Summary: The dreams that plague every soldier on returning from combat have never left Eugene.
Relationships: Eugene Roe/Ronald Speirs
Series: From Recognition to Realisation [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2169870
Kudos: 8





	Fraternisation

Ron heads straight to the mail room when he arrives back home; hoping the birthday present Lipton sent for Robbie has arrived so he can tell the man to stop worrying about it being lost in the mail. _Fucking mother hen._ It’s only a day late. And there is nine inches of snow on the ground. But really, Ron loves that Lipton makes such an effort with his son.

He almost collides with Eugene as the smaller man rushes out of the tiny mail room, a couple of envelopes clutched in his hand. "Wow," Ron laughs, reaching out to steady him.

"S-sorry," Eugene says. He tries to duck past Ron without looking at him, but Ron stands his ground, forcing the doctor to glance up.

"Oh, Ron, I didn't realise - " Eugene stutters, cheeks flushing pink.

"S'okay," Ron replies, unable to help the small smile tugging at his lips, "you doing okay?" he asks, taking in Eugene's pale complexion and the dark circles under his eyes. It's been a couple of months since Ron saw him last, but he doesn't remember the man looking quite so pale and tired.

"Yeah, yeah I’m okay," Eugene replies, sounding a little uncertain. He runs his hand through his messy black hair, "tough few days at work, that’s all. I lost a couple of patients."

"I’m sorry," Ron says, for lack of anything else to say.

Eugene shrugs, "it happens, I guess. I'm still not used to it."

"I don’t think you're supposed to get used to it, Doc." He notices Eugene visibly tense at the nickname and makes a mental note to himself not to call Eugene _Doc_ again.

“You heading out or just coming home?” Ron asks, after they have stood awkwardly watching each other in the doorway of the mail room for a few moments.

Eugene gives him a tight smile, "I was going to head out for a run," he nods towards the main door of the building "probably not a good idea."

Heavy snow is falling and another deep freeze is forecast for tonight. Ron had forgotten how brutal Boston winters can be and sometimes part of him longs for the unrelenting heat of the sandbox. “Probably not,” Ron agrees. The more he looks at Eugene, the more he is struck by how tired and unhappy the doctor looks. He finds himself wishing he could do something to help. Lipton’s mother hen ways are rubbing off on him. He invites Eugene to his place, claiming he has a pot of chilli that will go to waste if it’s not eaten tonight. It’s not exactly the truth, he only made the chilli this morning. But the warm feeling in his chest when Eugene agrees is worth the hassle of having to rethink his meal options for the rest of the week.

* * *

They become friends. Or something. Ron's not entirely sure what. He'd like them to be more than friends. And sometimes, he thinks that maybe Eugene would like that too. But the man can be hard to read; and while he seems happy and comfortable with them being friends of sorts, Ron gets the impression Eugene won’t let him get too close. He gets the impression Eugene won’t let anyone get too close. So when the worst of the winter weather passes, they go running together, and sometimes they order pizza and drink beer and rewatch old movies they have both seen a dozen times. Once or twice, Eugene has cooked for him, introducing him to an entire menu of delicious Cajun food.

They avoid the one topic they have in common. Ron doesn't mention his job, doesn’t mention the army. He doesn’t mention the camaraderie he misses now that Lipton and Welsh have rejoined the civilian world. He doesn’t mention his frustration that his new commanding officer is nowhere near as capable and competent as Winters, more concerned with earning medals and promotions than he is about the wellbeing of the men. He makes absolutely no mention of his gut feeling he will be deployed to the middle east again in the next year, and that part of him, a big part of him, is excited by the prospect of another tour. He has tried, but he just can't settle into civilian life the way Winters and Lipton have.

Occasionally, Eugene tells him about his work at the hospital; and as time goes on, Ron begins to recognise the signs that Eugene has had a particularly bad day.

One evening, sitting in Ron's apartment, after what appears to have been an exceptionally bad week for Eugene, he is struck by how fucking exhausted the man looks. He is almost asleep, slumped in the couch beside Ron, elbow resting on the arm of the couch and his head propped up in his open palm. And much as Ron would like to keep him here, where he can continue to admire the pretty curve of Eugene’s mouth and imagine running his hands through that thick, black hair, he drains the last of his beer and gives Eugene a gentle nudge, "I should let you get home."

"I’m fine, Ron."

"Get some sleep Eugene, fuck knows you look like you could use it."

“I can’t,” Eugene says, voice barely more than a whisper.

He looks so fucking miserable and suddenly, it hits Ron. The dreams that plague every soldier on returning from combat have never left Eugene. _Fuck._ He thinks of how he could barely sleep for more than a couple of hours at a time when he first came home from his most recent tour, the nightmares he had where his men were shot at, injured and killed. Sergeant Grant plagued his dreams. For weeks he would wake up breathless and sweaty from images of Grant’s exposed skull; their medic, fighting to gain access to the man’s rapidly collapsing veins to administer fluids and medication. And all the while Ron could do nothing more than helplessly stroke the sergeant’s hand. Logically, he knows there was nothing he could do to prevent the injuries his men had suffered; the deaths of Private Janovec and too many others who were killed by a sniper after a particulary brutal battle in a rural Iraqi village. They were his men. His job was to keep them safe and bring them home. And he had failed. He’s done some mental math based on the few things Eugene has mentioned about his time in Afghanistan and he reckons the man has been stateside for around nine months now. Long enough that the combat stress should be easing. Long enough that he should have somewhat readapted to civilian life, long enough that he should be able to sleep for longer than two hours at a time. Looking at Eugene now, Ron doubts the man is even able to sleep for two hours straight.

“Fuck, Eugene.” He feels helpless; realises it's becoming a common theme where Eugene is concerned.

Eugene turns away from him, gathering together their empty bottles to take to the kitchen, "Don’t worry about it, I shouldn’t have said anything.”

But Ron can’t help but feel worried as he watches Eugene brace himself against the counter in the kitchen. Standing with his back to him, Ron can see the tension across his shoulders. He can see the way the man is forcing himself to take deep breathes in an effort to keep his emotions under control.

A idea forms in Ron’s head and he moves until he is standing right behind Eugene, feeling the heat of Eugene’s body against his own. He wonders briefly if this will earn him a punch from the Cajun man. He places a hand on Eugene’s hip, wraps the other around his chest and steps in closer. “Sshhh,” he soothes when Eugene tenses. “You need to relax; let me help you.”

He strokes Eugene’s hip with his fingers, and when Eugene exhales a shuddering breath and the tension begins to melt out of his body, Ron slides his hand from Eugene’s hip to lightly cup his crotch. Eugene whines, places his hand over Ron’s and squeezes gently. And that’s all Ron need to know Eugene isn’t going to punch him for this.

“Yeah?” Ron asks, pressing his mouth against Eugene’s ear.

“Yeah,” Eugene answers, his voice little more than a coarse whisper.

Ron walks him to the bedroom; tells him to take his clothes off, to get on the bed. Eugene does as he asks without a word; watching Ron the entire time, his eyes betraying that he is both terrified and desperate for Ron to touch him.

Ron finds a tube of lotion, not ideal but it'll do. He arranges the pillows, then sits on the bed with his back against the headboard. He tugs at Eugene until the smaller man is sitting between his legs, his back resting against Ron’s chest his head crafled in the hollow of Ron's shoulder. He kisses Eugene’s shoulder, bites lightly at his jaw and snakes a hand down his ribs and around his hip until he gets his hand on Eugene’s hardening cock. He strokes Eugene; slowly at first, then harder and faster, guided by the moans that escape Eugene’s mouth. Eugene grinds his ass back against Ron’s cock, digs his fingers into Ron’s thighs and makes the most fucking gorgeous breathy sounds Ron has ever heard as he reaches his climax and comes over Ron’s fingers.

Ron comes in his pants as he watches Eugene come; something he hasn’t down since he was about fourteen. He'd be a little ashamed of his lack of self-control, but Eugene is lying in his arms, utterly boneless in the overglow of his orgasm and looking moments away from sleep. And that, Ron tells himself, was the entire point.

He kisses the soft skin between Eugene’s neck and shoulder, gently rolls the man to one side, whispers “I'm going to lock up, stay here.”

He checks the door is locked, turns off the lights and makes his to the bathroom where he cleans himself up and grabs a wash cloth for Eugene. Eugene jerks awake when he comes back into the bedroom, “Clean yourself up,” Ron says, tossing the damp wash cloth at him.

“What about you?” Eugene asks.

“I’m fine.”

“But I didn’t...” he trails off, cheeks flushing slightly and Ron allows himself a half smile at the thought that maybe, Eugene wanted this too and it wasn’t just desperation for sleep.

“Next time,” Ron says, reaching down to kiss him lightly and pull the sheets up around the man, "Go to sleep Eugene, I'll be right here."

Eugene turns on his side so he is facing Ron, "Promise you won’t let me dream.”

Ron nods, slides into the bed beside him and watches as Eugene sleeps peacefully and dreamlessly for an hour and thirty-six minutes.


End file.
